He pushed the yellow sheet across the table toward my plate.

A black ballpoint pen rolled across the wood and came to a stop against my water glass.

I didn’t pick up the pen.

“I’m not signing away the master bedroom,” I said.

“My clothes are in that closet, and David’s desk is upstairs.”

Arthur slammed his fork down on the wooden table, the silver clattering against the rim of his plate.

“Your crying isn’t going to pay the property taxes on this place, Eleanor,” Arthur said, his voice climbing until the windowpanes shook.